Experience
by Pureauthor
Summary: For Xirysa's Senses challenge. The way one perceives the world - and others - is unique. No two are alike. /5 Taste - Strawberries, he decided. It was like strawberries./
1. Sight

Experience

* * *

Guess this is a bit of a tight spot I'm in. I want to participate in Xirysa's 'Senses' challenge, but I have less than a month to drum up five stories, and as a result I'm likely going to end up rushing them and not doing as well as I could.

Which is a bit of a shame. But even in the end, even if I slip past the deadline I consider this a good writing experience. Thematic writing isn't something I do very often. (I _think_ this is considered thematic writing.)

First fic – based on Sight. And for the record, why isn't Mia/Rhys a more popular pairing around these parts anyway?

* * *

White Cloth – Sight

* * *

He wasn't much to look at, Mia mused. His body was really rather scrawny – nothing as drastic as her eternally starved roommate and friend, but you'd have to be physically blind to mistake him for any sort of a muscleman. And while some people, like Mia herself, could be both thin and with an undercurrent of muscular strength - 'wiry' was the term, she believed, she could tell, almost upon sight, that Rhys was most certainly not that kind of person.

Not that his white, flowing robes didn't cover up most of his body most of the time. It kinda sorta had the effect of making him look like one of those noble heroes of old.

Kinda. Sorta.

And so it had been a rather dreadful disappointment to her when she'd realized her destined rival, her ultimate goal, her one true partner for her duel at dawn was… well, _him_.

It was nothing she couldn't take in stride, though (or so she thought), and so, she'd set about on the lengthy, tedious, and ultimately fruitless process of toughening him up to the point where a duel between him and her would be one for the history books.

Or, well, at least an epic, joined, battle.

Or maybe a nice, rousing bout.

Or maybe they'd reach a point where he could actually defend himself against a single one of her attacks.

After learning that, in this case, you _could_ judge a book by its cover, she reluctantly abandoned the idea of Rhys being her destined archrival. Well, there was that tiny idea of him being mounted on a gallant steed, but the Greil mercenary troupe really didn't have many spare mounts, and after asking Titania if she would lend them her own steed for practice the female knight had all but fallen over laughing at the idea of Rhys being a horserider. So that was quickly mooted.

Brief mishaps concerning their meeting aside, the blue-haired myrmidon had quickly developed a friendship with the young priest – although she'd quickly realized that she was now stuck watching after _two_ sickly people on the battlefield. Ilyana wasn't so bad, but Rhys' predisposition to pushing himself up to the point of collapse despite suffering raging fevers often caused him to faint in the middle of a battlefield for no apparent provocation.

At one point, she'd caught sight of his gleaming white robes fluttering forlornly on the field, and with a cry of alarm she'd rushed over to the healer's side. Later, carrying him over her shoulder much like one would a sack of potatoes, as she headed back to camp, she'd grumbled something about how he was going to get himself killed one of these days running about healing people with no regard for his own frailty. It'd also struck her as rather bizarre that someone could overexert themselves from _healing_, after all they did was stand there holding their staves at particular angles while praying, but hey, she roomed with a mage that could collapse from hunger not five minutes after consuming a meal, so what did she know?

After getting him to promise that he wouldn't push himself quite so hard anymore (her reassurances stemming from this promise was somewhat blunted by learning that similar promises had already previously been extracted by Titania. And Mist. And Oscar. And Boyd. And the Boss. Hell, even _Soren_ had commented that Rhys really shouldn't be overdoing it), the two of them had ended up in a slightly more enjoyable, if mundane routine. On the rare occasions when she wasn't engaged in battle or practicing her swordplay, she'd seek out Rhys, instantly recognizable even in the grey dusk by the flash of his white robes (she was half-prepared to swear he'd infused some sort of Light spell in to them, so much in contrast to the dull surroundings were they) amongst the others. Then they would sit down together, him talking to her about theology and nature. And she, in turn, would describe her swordplay, the fast-paced frenetic battles she had engaged in, of the near misses and scrapes she'd been through time and time again. And in such a way, each caught a glimpse of a life they never had – could never have.

And then one day, in yet another fight to stop the Mad King's war, it happened.

Cutting her way through her foes as usual, she'd felt a momentary impact in her stomach. Glancing down, she had time enough to note that there was an arrow embedded in her belly before the pain hit. Later, she'd compare it to putting a knife blade in a fire until the whole thing was red hot and then grabbing the blade with her bare hands (Rhys, after wincing at the imagery, had then questioned her on how she knew exactly what grabbing a red-hot knife blade with her bare hands would feel like, whereupon Mia hastily changed the subject), but at that moment, the part of her brain that dedicated itself to making such comparisons was summarily drowned out by the part of her brain that reacted to pain and it was currently screaming. As was Mia herself.

She was supposed to be a warrior, she was supposed to be able to fight past the pain, but for whatever reason, she couldn't. Not just then (Later they would find traces of some solution on the arrowhead specifically designed to cause intense agony. Cheating bastards.). She'd doubled over, using every ounce of her willpower not to clutch at her midsection because she knew that any pressure applied to the area meant more potential innards for the arrowhead to cut through, and after fighting to remain conscious for a good minute, she'd passed out.

When her eyes fluttered open again, she found herself staring at white robes again. It took her a couple of seconds to register that it was because her eyes were currently at Rhys' chest level. Then she shifted her gaze up to look at Rhys' face. He was currently sweating and looking as if he was about to keel over any minute… which was actually pretty much par for the course in any situation where he was forced to breathe heavily for more than ten seconds.

Just as Mia was about to tell him that she was awake and perfectly fine now (and it was the truth too, seeing as the pain from her arrow wound had disappeared), Rhys' arm strength apparently gave away at that and she landed rather unceremoniously on the ground.

"Ow."

"Oh! Ah, you're awake! Sorry about that…"

"Fine. It's fine." And it was, really, once Mia realized that Rhys had charged into the thick of the melee, healed her, and then proceeded to carry her all the way to the rear. Others in the Mercenary band called it a miracle he managed even that.

Predictably, he came down with a fever shortly afterwards. Not quite so predictably, Mia found herself taking care of him for those next few days. Since he still insisted on taking the field during his sickness, Mia found suitable action as a bodyguard.

Truth be told, she didn't half mind. Rhys may not have been the archrival she had been searching for, but hey, there was plenty of time for her to find one. And in the frail, gentle priest, she may have just found something far more precious.

* * *

Chapter End

* * *

Eesh. Thematic writing is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. Having to focus on an abstract value as the basis of the story can be difficult, especially if you have a plot, and the characters (as characters are wont to do) start doing their own thing and you follow along, only to realize later that they've strayed quite a bit from the original theme. In this case I tried to link the imagery of Rhys' robes to himself, but I don't think I did very good job.

Here's to hoping the next chapter/oneshot is better.

Anyway, thanks for reading, please review, offer concrit, that sort of thing.


	2. Smell

Experience

* * *

Well, I tried to plan this one out a _little_ more, so hopefully it'll stick more closely to the thematic guns than the first one did.

I feel I should mention that the genres are going to change around a bit from chapter to chapter. The Sight chapter was pretty humorous overall, and this chapter… isn't.

Also, I'll be jumping through multiple fandoms here. And as an extension, multiple pairings.

The sense here is Smell. And it revisits an old favourite pairing of mind.

* * *

Roses – Smell

* * *

Priscilla had always smelled of roses, Erk thought to himself. The first time he'd met her, in the courtyard of Castle Reglay, he'd instinctively wrinkled his nose at the scent as he walked right by her. Luckily for all involved, Priscilla hadn't noticed – she'd merely continued her discussions with Lord Pent about her plans for setting out for Lycia.

Truth be told, he honestly hadn't cared much about the details beforehand. Such a journey would be good training for him, and he'd had experience in this sort of thing. So naturally he'd agreed to go along as her escort, although most of the finer points about what his client intended to _do_ once she got to Lycia escaped him.

It had changed when he first gotten acquainted with his new employer. Priscilla was everything Serra hadn't been: soft-spoken, shy, unassuming, kind, gentle… And once they were on the road and started talking to fill in the silence, he'd discovered that she had a solid, if rather rudimentary, knowledge of Anima Theory too. A friendship had quickly developed, although Erk constantly reminded himself that it was not proper for an employee to get too close to his employer.

He remembered the long days spent doing nothing but simply travelling, each pointing out the beauties of the natural world around them. And though they used the main roads, there were long stretches where there would be only the two of them, talking and laughing about some random jest. He remembered, too, that they had been waylaid in the canton of Laus by its Marquess – a thoroughly disagreeable man, according to the people living under him. He remembered being rescued by Lord Eliwood's band of travelling warriors – and Erk hesitated to use the term 'army', because, well, they really weren't one – and subsequently travelling to Lycia by her side. He remembered her breaking down shortly after hearing from Raven that House Cornwall had been destroyed, the lord and lady of the estate killed. He remembered holding on to her frail, delicate body as she sobbed, his arms wrapped protectively around her, knowing that she was in no fit state to even be comprehending what she was doing. He remembered the brief flash of irritation – jealousy? – on Raven's face before the mercenary had shook his head and walked away, the sympathetic glance from Lucius, and the thin form of Priscilla holding on to him as if for dear life, shivering as tears ran down her face.

But most of all, he remembered the scent of roses.

It was with her wherever she went. At first he'd been convinced that it was some kind of perfume she used rather liberally on herself, but no, she could return from the thick of battle, covered in blood and sweat and mud, and as Erk walked her back to her tent he could detect the faintest whiffs of roses about her still. Even after emerging fresh from a bath, the gentle, sweet aroma was still there, still tailing the gentle maiden about wherever she went.

Rather unsurprisingly, in stead of associating Priscilla with the scent of roses, Erk began to associate the scent of roses with Priscilla. Whenever the party stopped in the vicinity of a town, Erk would sooner or later find himself wandering past a florist, stopping only by the roses bouquets to enjoy the aroma – only to remind himself that he really should be going to find Priscilla. He _was_ her escort for the duration of the journey, after all.

As their journey progressed, the two of them began to grow closer to each other. It had been so subtle, so gradual, that Erk had barely noticed at first. After-dinner conversations by the campfire, longer strolls through the countryside, enjoying the verdant scenery and lush flora. Hands, clasped tight to one another as they returned to the campfire.

And in the cold stillness of the night, arms entwined around each others bodies, they would sleep, the young mage's last thoughts before he drifted off to slumber of the sweetness wafting off her skin.

And so, as he sits now, carefully folding and packing away her clothes, her staff, her belongings, he pauses, reaches up to brush away the brimming tears.

It had been his fault. He should have seen the arrow coming, should have reacted faster, should have pushed her out of the way, should have jumped in to take the hit himself. After all, she could have healed him, but for whatever reasons healing staves didn't work on the person using it.

And as he clutches a wrinkled tunic, he lifts it to his face and breathes in deeply, one last time.

The scent of roses. Lingering.

Priscilla.

* * *

**Chapter End**

* * *

I don't work well under pressure. And there's no way I'm winning this 'contest'. (Is unhappy)


	3. Hearing

Experience

* * *

So, thanks to the extended deadline, I was given some more time to think about what exactly I wanted to write. So, well… I hope this work is good. It struck in a rather sudden 'Hey, how would _that_ feel?' sort of way.

Anyway, hope you enjoy it. Once again, the fandom's a-switching to the continent of Magvel.

Sense here is hearing.

* * *

Listen – Hearing

* * *

He couldn't see anything.

Even now the rational, analytical part of his mind was trying to offer up reasons, explanations, for why this should be the case. The interior of the Black Temple was, well, rather dark. His eyes were half-closed preventing light from entering.

And of course, his body was utterly broken, marked by more wounds than he thought possible. Everything was slowly fading, failing, as his frail frame continued its futile struggle to stay alive. His breath was shallow, further depriving his body of oxygen, as more and more of his precious blood drained and pooled on the cold stone floor.

"…on? Lyon!" Something penetrated the cloud of darkness that surrounded him.

A voice? He could still hear! Still listen.

That voice… that soft, melodious voice… he knew it. He knew who it belonged to.

_Eirika._

He wanted to turn to her, wanted to force his eyes open, wanted to see her, wanted to reach out and stroke her face, wanted to smile for her.

But he couldn't. He couldn't move, couldn't open his eyes, couldn't force even the most feeble of twitches from his crushed, scarred body. All he could was breathe.

And listen. He could do that.

"Lyon…" Eirika's voice was sorrowful. She spoke as if the words themselves choked her, as if she had to fight to force them out, and then they came out mangled, crushed, like shards of broken glass, and just as painful to feel. "Why? Why did this have to happen? Why did I have to…" The words fade away into silence, as if by completing the sentence everything would be made all the more real. Would make the fact that she had plunged the weapon into his chest, almost all the way up to the hilt, that she had pulled it out and let dark blood spurt all across the both of them all the more terrible.

And he wanted to say he was sorry, that he knew that he had been an utter fool, that Formortiis had controlled everything, _everything_, and that after all his hard work, those long, agonizing, tedious of struggling, straining, trying to find the cure, the answer, the solution, he was now left with nothing, nothing but the ashes of yesterday.

But he couldn't. He couldn't speak. All he could do was listen.

"Lyon…" The voice becomes tender, dreamier, almost, as if reminiscing. "Lyon, I always used to tell you that you didn't need to struggle so hard… that you could just be yourself and that was enough. But you never listened. You always tried to push yourself beyond what you could do, beyond your limits… And now…" The voice rises in pitch and tone, almost verging on hysterical. "Why didn't you listen, Lyon? Why didn't you _listen_?"

And he simply couldn't reply.

There is a long, interminable silence, and Lyon began to wonder if she had left, if she had turned and stalked away, left him to die. Or maybe he was wrong, and she was sitting there, cradling his shattered body, holding it close to her. He didn't know – he couldn't tell, he couldn't _feel_.

All he could do was listen. Listen to the howling silence all around him, the silent, slow encroachment of Death, the-

"Lyon…"

The voice again! But it was… fuzzier now, as if from a great distance, slightly distorted.

"Rest, Lyon. Don't worry. We'll take care of the Demon King – we'll make him pay for what he did to you." Even as she spoke, it grew further, fainter, until the silence swallowed everything but the tiniest, faintest murmur.

And he wanted to cry out, wanted to call to Eirika and explain that he'd merely wanted to make her proud, had never wanted to make her cry like she had just before throwing herself into battle against him, wanted nothing more than to simply _apologize_, to say he was sorry for started this whole wretched mess that had grew the envelop the entire continent.

But he couldn't do that. He couldn't do any of that.

All he could do was listen, listen to the silence that now filled the entirety of his awareness.

All… he… could…

* * *

**Chapter End**

* * *

Strangely enough, I had a bunch of tense issues with this particular piece of work. Anyway, I hope you all like it.

Thanks for reading, please review.


	4. Touch

Experience

* * *

Well, I certainly took my time with this one.

Aaaaand, this probably isn't going to be what most of you had in mind when this challenge was first presented to us. To be honest, I'm kinda iffy about writing this, but in the name of experimentation and trying new things…

Sense for this chapter is Touch.

* * *

Loathsome – Touch

* * *

Loathsome. Vile. Excruciating.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of words danced within her mind, melding into a writhing, twisting elegy of some twisted nightmare, yet none of it sufficing to describe the utter repulsion that seethed within her.

Rough, calloused hands, layers upon layers of dead, hardened flesh. The mark of someone who had spent a lifetime in battle, swinging warhammers and axes until the body learnt to retaliate, forming a cocooned, nerveless shell.

Scars. Torn, healed skin crisscrossing over his entire body, each faded jagged line telling of a wound received, a battle fought, a life taken in recompense. One seared its way across his eye, forming part of the grizzled, deep-set mask that was his face.

To touch, them, running her delicate, exquisitely crafted, _perfect_ fingers across those scars, to coo and flirt and to pretend she was impressed with his weaknesses and frailty (for who but the weak and frail would allow themselves to be wounded in battle?) provoked within her an urge to retch, to scream, to lash out.

But she didn't, of course. She played her part perfectly, keeping up the loving façade, leading the poor deluded fool onwards, making him and his laughable organization dance to the tune of her lord.

That's not to say it was _easy_. Certainly not. Forcing down the bile in her throat every time he hugged or kissed her – or worse, when she hugged or kissed _him_ – was a difficult affair that never truly got any easier with time. No matter how hard she tried, she could never get past that tiniest stiffening of the shoulders, the smallest flash of panicked abhorrence whenever he felt his awkward, fumbling attempts to be tender, caring, towards her.

Nighttimes were the worst, though. The feeling of his body pressing up close against hers, his hot exertions on her cheek… Even now, a cold worm nestled in the pit of her stomach stirred and writhed at the thought.

She supposed that it was for the best in the end. To grow to accept such horrific imperfection would have signified a debasement of herself, a loss, no matter how gradual, of her perfect nature.

And now she stood before him, golden eyes flaring with delighted malice. His expression was one of confusion mixed with growing anger… and just a hint of uncertain fear.

_Delicious._

One gloved hand reached out, almost as if it were about to reach out to stroke his grizzled jaw. "Every moment spent with you, every touch, every caress… it was _loathsome_!" She spat the last word out, almost as if it were an arcane fireball, letting the hate and venom within her splash out over him. He flinched, jerking back, as if he had struck her physically.

"All for Lord Nergal, all to control the Black Fang!" She continued, gloating, exultant. At last. At _last_. Free of the shackles that had bound her for so long. No more to play the part of a simpering, foolish, lovestruck idiot who had fallen for a boorish, idealistic fool.

"Sonia! You _monster!_" The cry of rage distracts her from her thoughts and as reality whirls back into focus she belies him charging at her. Suddenly pain flares, and her fury spikes. That he would dare wound her! The audacity of it…!

Twisting, she reaches up, grabbing onto him with a strength that belies her thin arms. Before the warrior can do anything else, she has pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the steady, regular throbs of his heart, feeling the roughness of the leather tunic. Naturally – he hadn't come expecting a fight, and thus no armour.

She pauses for a moment – an eternal moment, savouring her sweet, sweet victory.

A quick incantation, a flash of searing light, and she lets the body collapse to the floor in the broken heap. Had he whispered something under his breath before expiring? She couldn't tell – oh, well, anything that he had to say wouldn't have been of particular importance.

Behind her, the morph steps forward, her own palms flaring with arcane energy. "Brendan Reed… such magnificent quintessence."

"Be sure to tell him it was I who killed Brendan!" She snaps, not bothering to hide her disdain for the artificial construct. Pain jolts her step again, and she presses a hand to her side, feeling the slick wetness of her blood running through her fingers.

Marked. Scarred. _Imperfect._ Her golden eyes flashed dangerously as she stormed away. To think that one as lowly as that worm could... But no. No, why pay him any more thought. His had been a long and tiresome chapter in her life, finally closed, thank the stars.

Never again to feel his touch, his kisses… A tight, cold smile played across her features.

Perfect.

* * *

Xirysa never said the couple had to be a happy (or even a functioning) one, did she?

Thanks for reading. Please review!


	5. Taste

Experience

* * *

And here we are. It's been a rather interesting experience, and hopefully I've learned a bit from it.

The last pairing is one that anyone who's read my works on the site should be very familiar with. On we go.

Sense for this chapter is… well, the last remaining one. Taste.

(X)

* * *

Chicken and Strawberries – Taste

(X)

"Hey, Forde?" The way the question was phrased made it obvious to the youth that whatever was on his younger brother's mind had been there for a while.

It was a lazy midsummer afternoon – the chores had more or less been completed, and the two siblings were lying in the shade of a tree, waiting for the sun's punishing heat to fade away some before they ventured outdoors again. Of course, for two kids midstep between puberty and adolescence, it was infernally boring.

The older brother turned his head slightly to the right to stare at Franz. Short for his twelve years of age, the younger boy was staring at the sky, a tiny frown on his face.

"Yeah?" He questioned lazily, barely stifling a yawn. A nap sounded good right about now…

"What do kisses taste like?"

The initial response of the older knight was to raise a single eyebrow. After a long pause, he chuckled. "And what, may I ask, brought this on?"

Franz shrugged noncommittally. "Oh… you know. Stuff."

"Started noticing the village girls, huh." Forde was too drowsy to really lay on the ribbing.

Franz flushed slightly. "N- no, it's just… I was just wondering… you _do_ know, don't you?"

Truth be told, Forde didn't, really. What free time he had was spent bettering his skills so that he might be accepted into the Knights of Renais, to carry on his father's legacy. And while he had gained a bit of reputation among his fellow squires as being rather lackadaisical, always ready with a joke and a roguish smile, in between his duties, his own training sessions, and looking after his younger brother, he'd never had time to learn the ways of courting the fairer sex.

Not that he was ever going to admit that. In his more candid moments, Forde wondered if his refusal to allow any cracks or chinks in his armour to show was a product of being forced to be his younger brother's sole guardian for the past six years of their lives, the fact that he simply didn't want to lose any face in front of his younger brother, or it just being a 'guy thing'.

Mentally, he decided it was all three, and then he shrugged.

"Chicken."

"What?" _That_ had gotten Franz's attention to the point where he sat up to look at his brother.

"They taste like chicken." Forde nodded sagely. "You know, the breaded kind that they bring out during the Solstice festivals. Only softer, of course. Lips aren't very rough."

"…Are you…" The expression on Franz's face was… well, indescribable. "Are you serious?"

"Am I destroying any fantasies of yours? You look disappointed." Try as he might, Forde couldn't keep the slight smirk off his face.

His brother's eyes narrowed. "You're not serious."

"Hey, would I lie to you?" Each being the only living relation to the other had honed and refined their relation to the point where they had a series of subtle rituals and codes, with each side fully comprehending the unstated words. In _this_ particular case, it was a substitute for 'Yes, of course I would. This conversation is over.'

And with that, Forde rolled over and closed his eyes, stifling the urge to chuckle as he heard the sigh of annoyance coming from his younger brother.

* * *

It was odd, Franz decided, that he was now recounting a random conversation with his brother – literally one of hundreds – from five years ago. It had been a typical conversation, really, with nothing _really_ out of the ordinary with it, aside from some relevancy of the subject matter to his current situation.

All in all, he decided he far preferred thinking about the feeling of Amelia's lips pressed against his own, the way her slim body seemed to melt perfectly into his arms that encircled her, holding her close to him, about how he never wanted this moment to end. It was special. First kisses could be like that.

Still, he couldn't _quite_ shake the dregs of the conversation from his mind, not even as she pulled away from him with a soft sigh of satisfaction, her eyes half-closed in a dreamy stare.

"Strawberries." He finally decided. "That's what it's like."

"Huh?"

"N – no, it's nothing. Nevermind." He smiled gently and after a moment's hesitation, her puzzled expression shifted back into the gentle smile he knew so well.

And then he drew her in again, slowly, and their lips met once more.

* * *

And that's that. I hope those of you reading this enjoyed it.


End file.
